


Hold for Release

by cloudsarefluffy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Hannibal, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Journalism, Apologies, Dark Agenda, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal is Hannibal, Hannibal is definitely a fan, Hybristophilia, I'll do it once the holidays pass and i have the time, I'm sorry if the smut isn't what u wanted, Journalist Will Graham, Knifeplay, Light Angst, Light BDSM, M/M, Manipulative Will, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Murder Husbands, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Obsession, Omega Will Graham, Possessive Hannibal, Pregnancy, Pregnant Will, Protective Hannibal, Time Skips, Will Graham Doesn't Need Help, Will is kinda famous for his writing, for right now, m'brain ded, though it varies in length some are rather marginal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 15:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8996224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudsarefluffy/pseuds/cloudsarefluffy
Summary: For the Hannigram Holiday Exchange 2016, WarpedChyld asked for: I live for Gallahad/Adam/Any of Hugh's characters bottoming. ABO is loved. As is smut and fluff and angst. Kink. Bdsm. Bloodģknifeplay. Dubcon. Mpreg is cool.---“But?”“Will, I think you’re obsessed with the Chesapeake Ripper.”For a moment, Will just blinks at her, but after what she says sinks in, a chuckle starts building up in his chest until it grows into a laugh. He’s almost coming apart at the seams because of Beverly, but as he notices he’s the only one finding it funny, his giggling dies off into silence.“Oh… You’re serious.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> I rushed to get this done because I was babysitting this entire week. ;_;
> 
> Also, my little second cousin, Riley, was “helping” me right this. She says: “Happy holidays I am so happy. And then the next one is gonna be, ‘sometimes I get a little sad of Christmas!’ Wait— hold on, erase that one please. Tell them it’s going to be— you still left that one. Erase it. I said it. No, I did. Ugh, fine, can you erase that _please?_ . . . You still didn’t erase it.”
> 
> And I never will. *maniacal laughter*
> 
> NOTE: This is not beta read, as of right now. Since it’s so close to Christmas itself, I haven’t had the time to truly correct any errors because of the posting deadline. I promise once everything calms down, I’ll come back and fix this puppy up! Apologies for any typos and whatever you may find until then!
> 
> Anyways, happy holidays, and I hope you like it!

The door to Jack Crawford’s office opens, letting in the noises from outside the space— people typing, taking calls, some hovering around the water cooler or coffee machine. The buzz is cut off abruptly though once Will shuts the door, leaving him to bask in the awkward silence that is his boss’ office.

From behind his desk, Jack looks up, smiling professionally at Will, “Take a seat, please.”

“Any reason as to why you called me in here while I’m working, Jack?”

“We need to talk about _this,_ ” Jack holds up a familiar stack of paper, “or more specifically, the implications it will have.”

Will sighs and settles himself in the chair opposite of Jack, “What’s there to say?”

“Will, if you keep this up, your work is going to get you killed one day,” Jack sighs with a weighted breath, setting Will’s final draft for the column on his desk, “I tell you all the time you need to tone things down, stop hypothesizing, but you don’t! One day, you’re going to write about the wrong person, and it’s going to backfire tremendously.”

“Jack, for one, it’s called freedom of the press. Second, I live for this work— rather fitting that it kills me,” Jack frowns deeply at that, “But the main point is, you know me. If there’s a story, I’m going to get it. I’m not afraid of backlash _or_ backfire. You know this.”

Jack sighs, his worry lines practically worsening just from their conversation, “After the Verger scandal, that was made very clear to me.”

Will starts to get up from his seat, “Good, so there’s no need for this conversation—“

“ _Sit down,_ Will,” Jack orders gruffly, leaving Will to begrudgingly follow it, “I shouldn’t have to say it, but apparently I do. You’re an unmated omega. That makes you a target before you even start typing away. But this? Articles like _this?”_ Jack holds up Will’s paper again, looking angry, “This is a surefire way to get your head on a pike. Especially since this is about—“

“The Chesapeake Ripper. Yes, Jack, I’m aware of who I’m writing about.”

“Then why are you being so damn nonchalant about it!?” after shouting, Jack takes a deep breath to calm himself and pinches his nose, “Will, the Chesapeake Ripper is very particular about his image. Just last week a tabloid writer went missing, and they became the—“

“Third victim, I know. If you read my draft, you’d know that too.”

Jack grits his teeth together in frustration, “Will, I’m trying to tell you that you will be in danger if you keep on with this. I’ve been somewhat lenient with your antics before, but I can’t afford to spare a second glance this time around.”

Will laughs softly, “Jack, I know you’re concerned, but this is what you hired me for. Reporting. I’m doing my job as I’m supposed to. Besides, the reason that tabloid writer got murdered is because the Ripper considered her methods of journalism to be rude, and also because he thought of her writing as—“

“’Tasteless,’ as you put it,” Jack looks displeased with the quote from the paper, “Look, I don’t have a problem with you stating the facts, but you go on making your own theories about the Ripper, and you even made critiques of his killings as though they were art in a showing! That’s highly insensitive to the victims and their families! If he isn’t outraged by your apparent oversteps, the public will be, and I can’t have that on my conscience.”

“You mean you can’t have it in your paper,” Will corrects under his breath.

“No, I _won’t_ have it in the paper. This is outlandish, even for you, and altogether that’s disappointing,” Jack exhales roughly, and the argument lapses for a moment, “Will, you’re a damn good reporter. Your writing is solid, and you’ve had good feedback for your work. But you need to stop this. You need to let this go if you can’t simply report happenings as new stories instead of tall tales. We’re a newspaper, Will. We need to retain an amount of professionalism and respect for what we’re writing about, and this draft doesn’t have that.”

“I’m sorry that you don’t think so.”

“Will, you should know better. I expect better,” Will snorts, but Jack dismisses it with only a sharp look, “You’re lucky, Will, because I decided I won’t be banning you from covering this story. You can still write about the Ripper, as long as it remains factual and without your opinions flooding the paragraphs. So, when it comes to this draft of yours,” Jack hands it back to Will with a scowl pulling at his features, “it just won’t make the cut. Delete it. Burn it. Whatever. Just redact all of it and never try to create anything like it again, Will. If you do, I might just remove you from more than just the coverage rights.”

“I understand.”

“I’m glad that you finally do,” Jack then looks away from Will and back to his computer as though it were more deserving of the attention, “You may take your leave.”

Will’s hand tightens subtly on his draft before nodding, turning afterwards to exit. 

As he steps out of his boss’ office, a few heads turn his way. It’s not exactly unusual for visitations with Jack, so thankfully not many are highly curious as to why he’s just now shutting Jack’s door. Even so, Will feels a prickling against his skin because of the rejection, and it leaves him somewhat seething as he heads back to his desk.

He essentially throws his draft into his trash can, huffing softly and pressing his fingers to his temples.

Jack just doesn’t understand. There’s _more_ to this Chesapeake Ripper, there’s more to his story, but no reporter so far has even broached on it. The stories they’ve written have been focused on the victims and their families, and that’s why the Ripper has been displeased. He wants the attention— wants to be analyzed by more than just the bureau. 

If only Jack would give Will the chance…

Will looks at his desk, his frustration building as he sees stacks up stacks of papers— journals filled with details and writing that took up so many sleepless nights. _Months_ of personal research over years of evidence, of photos, of bureau statements and documents, of the Chesapeake Ripper striking and then disappearing into thin air. 

And Jack wants him to _forget_ it all.

But Will can’t forget.

He _wont._

No— not when he’s this close. Because, unbeknownst to Jack, Will has been learning a lot about the Chesapeake Ripper. There’s patterns he’s noticing— missing links. It’s all starting to come together after so much time spent was spent on gathering the pieces.

With a haggard sigh, Will clicks a key on the keyboard, waking up his computer from its sleep mode. The screen comes back on, revealing pages of in-progress word documents and archived internet pages, all concerning and revolving around the Ripper. He ends up minimizing them, leaving nothing but his draft on the screen.

“Rejected?”

Will jumps out of surprise, turning to see Beverly leaning against the edge of his desk.

He hadn’t even heard her approach.

“Um, yeah,” Will returns his gaze back to the screen, trying to calm himself, “Apparently Jack didn’t like what I had to say.”

“Is it that murderer story you’re working on?”

Will’s brow pinches, “You make it sound like I’m writing a crime novel.”

Beverly snorts and braces her arms along the edge of Will’s desk, “Will, I’ve seen your computer and your desk for the past few months. With the amount of work you’ve been doing, you might as well write a book on the Ripper.”

That makes Will snort, “I hadn’t thought of that.” 

“I didn’t mean it to be a suggestion,” she starts, and that makes Will glance her way, “Will, I understand that you’re dedicated to your work, I really do. I mean, the dirt you had on the Verger scandal was absolutely amazing. You’re being considered for a Pulitzer Prize, for Christ’s sake! But— . . .”

“But?”

“Will, I think you’re obsessed with the Chesapeake Ripper.”

For a moment, Will just blinks at her, but after what she says sinks in, a chuckle starts building up in his chest until it grows into a laugh. He’s almost coming apart at the seams because of Beverly, but as he notices he’s the only one finding it funny, his giggling dies off into silence.

“Oh… You’re serious.”

“Of course I’m serious!” Beverly hisses lowly, just for Will to hear, “You’ve been circling around this stuff like a hawk for months, Will! I’ve lost counts of how many times you’d stay behind reading article after article, or of how many flash drives you have just for crime scene photos! It’s getting to be too much!”

“I’m just trying to make a good report—“

“There’s digging into a story, Will, but there’s also going too deep,” Beverly takes in a sharp breath, “I’m worried about you, Will. First Zeller gone missing, and— . . . I don’t want you to lose you too, much less over an article.”

Will shakes his head at her, “You can’t obviously think I’m obsessed, Bev, because if you do, then I’ve been obsessed with every story I’ve covered so far.”

“No, that’s just being focused. Because with the Verger scandal, you at least went home on time, and—“ she grabs one of Will’s various journals, “—you didn’t need to spend money out of your own pocket on stationery.”

Will gingerly takes it back from her, “There’s just a lot of information to cover,” he murmurs.

“A lot of information to cover or not, you need to let it go, Will. Distance yourself. Actually write something else for a change and stop calling dibs whenever something about the Ripper comes up.”

“Like that’s been a problem—“

“There’s a running joke that you’re either going to have to die or be kidnapped by the Ripper for someone else to get to cover it, Will. That says something, don’t you think?”

Will huffs with irritation, “That maybe our coworkers have a poor sense of humor?”

“No, Will, it says that you’re too close. You’re too involved. You’re a reporter, of all things. You shouldn’t be this invested in a story that, apparently, Jack won’t even publish.”

At that, Will’s shoulders slump, and he exhales roughly, running a hand over his face, “Maybe— . . . Maybe you’re right…”

Beverly smiles softly at him, “Of course I am. Now, how about you talk to Jack, see if you can do something different, maybe get a few days off to recharge.”

“Jack is the last person I want to talk to.”

“Hm, I guess that’s warranted… Just— try and change things up for once. Do something, please.”

Will nods, “Yeah, okay… I’ll try.”

Beverly kisses his chastely on the forehead before leaving, and she sends a smile over her shoulder as she walks away. 

Will watches her go, only to close his eyes and turn to face his desk once she’s gone.

Apparently no one understands. 

But he’s so _close_ now— he hasn’t been able to explain to Jack or Bev or anyone else just how close he is to figuring out the Ripper. There’s only a few dots left to connect, a few people that he needs to interview and see. He’s almost there. Almost done. He just needs— he just needs time…

Will begins to consider what Beverly said, but most likely not in the way she intended as he starts to plan out his next few moves.

But, before he can forget, he grabs the rough draft for his article, and stuffs it into his messenger bag.

**-xXx-**

“You want _how long_ off?”

“A month,” Will states easily, sitting calmly in the very chair he was in when lectured not even a few hours before, “Beverly talked to me, and she made some sense. She said I needed some time away from the Ripper article. I was thinking I could do some footwork for something else, get my hands dirty in a different story.”

Jack purses his lips, “While I agree that may help, I not sure if I can approve a month’s leave—“

“Part of it is heat leave anyway, and you already know that I rarely take vacations or days off. I have a lot of time built up.”

That makes his boss scowl lightly, looking at his computer screen and likely seeing what Will is talking about, “As I’m noticing…”

“A month, Jack, that’s all I’m asking for. Compared to how Zeller asked for a year long trip to New Guinea on a false lead, only for him to disappear on you when visiting Washington, Maryland afterwards, this is rather harmless.”

Jack harrumphs, “Alright, I get it, Will. You can have your month, but, you have to promise me that you’ll have content to bring back, and it better not be like your last draft, or you’ll be put on a permanent leave.”

Will nods, trying not to squirm slightly in his seat, “I understand.”

“Good. After today you’ll get the time off. Use it wisely, Will.”

And Will smiles, “Oh, I plan to.”

**-xXx-**

“You want me to tell you _what!?_ That’s sensitive information here at BSCHI, Mr. Graham, and even such a respected reporter such as yourself knows that you’re not privy to it!”

“Dr. Chilton, please,” Will starts, following the man step for step as he briskly walks down the corridor, “I just want to know more about your former patient, Abel Gideon—“

Dr. Chilton turns then, forcing Will to stop abruptly as to not crash into the shorter beta, “I told you, this place is a dead end for you. No leads, no information that isn’t already public and out in the papers. I’m sorry that you aren’t getting what you need from me, but there are some stories that just aren’t meant to be told, Mr. Graham.”

Will frowns, “Maybe it’s that there are people who just don’t _want_ them to be told.”

Dr. Chilton exhales deeply, looking drained and haggard, but also seeming several years older from the stress that rests within the tension along his shoulders, “Be it whatever as it may, I already told you that while Abel Gideon’s records may not be out of my reach, they are for you. I cannot help you with your Ripper story, Mr. Graham.”

“Then do you know anyone who can?”

For a moment, Dr. Chilton looks like he’s about to call security on Will for being so stubborn, but he ends up sighing with a nod, “Yes, actually. There might be someone. He took over Gideon’s appointments after I was— . . . removed… He’s a psychiatrist, also a damn good one at that. He’s situated up in Baltimore, has his office at home. But what you really need to remember is that you better be careful about timing. He’s very anal about appointments.”

Will quickly grabs his small pad of paper from his bag, his pen at the ready, “What’s his name?”

**-xXx-**

The November air in Baltimore is rather crisp, and Will shivers for a second, his breath bellowing out in a cloudxv of steam as he barely rasps upon a certain front door.

For a moment, there is no response, and Will thinks that maybe he should come back later, but suddenly the door is opening and Will is clearing his throat.

There is a man standing at the door, a little bit older than Will, but nothing ancient— probably in his forties and closing in on fifty. His hair is slicked back, not a single strand out of place, and his eyes — maroon, almost — are almost colder than the air outside as they land on Will.

“Uh, hello. Dr. Lecter, I presume?” Will starts poorly, his voice not as solid as he wants it to be as Dr. Lecter nods, “I’m Will Graham. I write for the Virginia Tribune, and I was wondering if I could have a word with you— if you’re free, of course.”

Dr. Lecter tilts his head, and for a fraction of a second, Will thinks that he might be stormed off his front porch, but no, a smile appears instead, and he begins to talk in a deep, accented voice, “Ah, yes. I’ve heard of you— you’re the journalist who wrote the piece on the Vergers, am I correct?”

“Y-Yes, that was me.”

“That was a very fine piece of writing. Rather engaging and very eloquent,” Dr. Lecter smiles warmly, “May I ask about what you are covering now?”

“Well, I— uh, sure… The piece I’m doing now is about the Chesapeake Ripper, actually.”

Dr. Lecter’s smile falters a bit, “Is it now?”

“Yes. There’s just a few questions I’d like ask you.”

“And why me, of all people?”

There’s a tone in his voice, and Will nearly swallows wrong, because it feels like it’s hinting towards something far worse than getting chased off a porch, “Well, you’re renowned for being a great psychiatrist. I was wondering, if you were able to, you’d like to hear out some theories I have on the Ripper?”

Much to Will’s surprise, Dr. Lecter’s defense drops down, and the grin returns, “I would find that interesting enough to warrant the time. Please, come in,” he steps back, allowing Will room to cross the threshold.

Cautiously, Will enters, taking a deep breath and getting a whiff of Dr. Lecter’s scent— _alpha,_ nothing but musk and a type of pheromone that makes the hair on the back of Will’s neck stand on end. He fights the response back, forcing himself to take a few more steps further into the house before he turns towards Dr. Lecter in question.

“We’ll proceed to my office, if that’s fine,” Dr. Lecter informs Will, shutting the door and then moving past the omega afterwards, causing Will to follow, “So, Mr. Graham, what exactly has you theorizing about the Chesapeake Ripper?”

“You can call me Will, if that’s okay,” Will clarifies before answering, “But it’s an article I’m writing, much like I had done with the Verger scandal.”

“Ah,” Dr. Lecter sends a look over his shoulder, his gaze full of genuine curiosity, “so you’re going to be doing something very different, like before?”

“Yes. I’m taking a bit of an, as my boss put it, insensitive approach.”

They must reach the office then, though Will might not refer to the space as such. It seems like a rather larger, repurposed living room, its gray walls lined with so many bookcases that there is a second tier that requires an antique library ladder to reach it. But, for such immense room, it’s scantly filled with furniture. There is a decently-sized, ornate wooden desk with a chair behind and in front of it in the near middle of the room, covered in things from a golden letter opener to a leather-bound journal. There’s other furnishings, like the black-as-ink chaise lounge, or the two armchairs facing opposite of one another near the end of the room. There are a few other things as well, like a small writing desk that resides right by the window, and a few other small tables holding decor, from flowers, a familiar looking newspaper, to even a metal stag on another. 

Overall, it is a very odd room to Will.

“Not quite the office I was imagining,” is all he has to offer on it.

“I prefer a large space when talking to patients. Makes them feel more at ease,” Dr. Lecter then heads towards his desk, and he stands behind it, hands bracing it as he looks down at some papers, “Please, do take a seat, Will.”

Will does as asked, mindful of his messenger bag as he situates himself, “Is it alright with you if I take notes? I also have a tape recorder just in case, but I can leave it off, if you prefer.”

“It is fine with me to use both,” Dr. Lecter permits, and Will sends him a quick smile of appreciation as he gets his materials out of bag— Dr. Lecter then takes the time to talk, “This may be a bit rude of me, and I do apologize in advance if it causes any offense, but you said your boss considered your approach, as you put it, ‘insensitive?’”

The alpha elicits a short chuckle from Will, “Yes. Insensitive.”

“How so? Though, I would understand if you would rather leave certain things unsaid.”

Will sighs, setting his pad of paper against his lap, his pen held within a nerve-driven dance between his fingers, “No, it’s— it’s fine. My boss just likes to worry over how well what he puts out will sell. Apparently my take on the Ripper was something that wouldn’t guarantee that if it were published.”

“I’ve heard about a fellow coworker of yours, Brian Zeller. He’s somewhat of a laughing stock for being quite the poor writer with a slant before he went missing. If he can go forward with publishing something of his, surely he can okay something that you’ve written, especially when you’re so highly acclaimed.”

Will flushes at that, “W-Well, it’s not that simple… While Zeller is an absolute waste of paper and ink alongside whatever he gets on his payroll when he’s at work, that doesn’t mean my boss would necessarily do whatever I please. He said there’s an amount of professional and respect the paper has to have, and my draft was apparently lacking.”

“You have a draft?” Dr. Lecter asks, his interest obviously piqued.

“Yes, actually, but— I’m not supposed to anymore,” Will murmurs, dropping his hand down to his messenger bag out of reflex before he ends up glancing at the pages lining the insides, a small frown growing at the knowledge of knowing that’s all it’s going to amount to, “I was told that it needed to be forgotten about. Deleted. Burned. Redacted in all senses of the term.”

Will hears a soft growl, and when he looks up, he sees that Dr. Lecter’s features are drawn up into a light grimace, “How could that be said of something _you_ wrote?”

“I— well,” Will coughs lightly, removing his hand from around his bag and bringing it back up into his lap, “It’s because I did something rather— . . . _unorthodox…_ ”

Dr. Lecter quirks a brow.

“I didn’t take the same approach as everyone else, because I didn’t focus on the victims, but rather the Ripper himself.”

That makes Dr. Lecter’s gaze narrow on Will, “You wrote about the Ripper?”

“It’s strange, and I know that some wouldn’t take kindly to it, but it’s just—“ Will sighs harshly, scowling, “every other article focuses on the victims. That’s all they talk about. Pictures, backstories, the tragedy. But that’s not what we’re supposed to be covering— especially with such a meticulous serial murderer like the Ripper. But I’m not sure if you want to hear about that… I’ve been told most people wouldn’t.”

The corner of Dr. Lecter’s mouth crooks upward, “Well, it seems I am not most people.”

“You want to hear about this?”

“I let you in to discuss your theories, didn’t I?”

Will shrugs, “Well, I guess theories are a little different than about what I wrote…”

“Do you mind if I read your draft?” Dr. Lecter asks, his eyes looking almost longingly at Will’s messenger bag, “It could give me a few ideas as to what you theorize about the Ripper.”

Will glances down towards his bag again, and where his draft resides within it, “I’m— I’m not certain if I should let you read it.”

“Surely it won’t harm anything,” Dr. Lecter presses.

“Do you even have the time to read it?” Will tests, “It’s rather long, and from what I heard you’re a busy man.”

With a smile, Dr. Lecter chuckles, “My afternoon is free, Will, and I find that you are worth it being spent on you.”

Will flushes, “Oh… Thank you.”

“It is of no grievance for me, I assure you,” the alpha insists, “In fact, I like to think of it as rather a pleasure.”

The honeyed words make Will avert his gaze down to his lap, a small smile gracing his lips, “I’m pleased to know you think so highly of my work.”

“It’s not just your work that I’m referring to,” Dr. Lecter purrs.

“Oh,” Will coughs, his cheeks heating, “Thank you, I suppose…”

Dr. Lecter’s mouth only quirks a bit further before he speaks, “Do you wish to stay for dinner?”

The question throws Will. He glances at his watch to make sure he’s not overreacting.

“But it’s only eleven…”

“You said that this would take quite some time to go over. I thought I’d extend an invitation,” he pauses, “Unless it is too forward of me…” he trails off, leaving his assumption open in case Will agrees.

Will presses his lips together tightly for a moment, thinking about whether or not staying for that long would be wise— if it’s worth it.

“I suppose it depends on what you are serving, Dr. Lecter.”

“I’ll make something special just for us. But don’t worry,” the alpha smiles, his sharp teeth glinting in the light, “I’ve heard my cooking is to die for.”

**-xXx-**

They end up in the kitchen rather than the office, and the whole relocation leaves Will with a more intimate feeling than a professional one.

Especially after Dr. Lecter breaks out a wine bottle.

“This is a refined Merlot,” Dr. Lecter explains, pouring the drink into Will’s glass, “You’ll find it will pair perfectly with our pork.”

Will hums, watching the crimson liquid pool until Dr. Lecter tops his glass off, “I see that you treat your guests fairly well. To think, I was told you might’ve been rude about my visit.”

“Rude? Surely you must’ve heard wrong,” Dr. Lecter then begins to fill up his own glass from where it resides on the countertop, “May I ask who said such a thing?”

“Dr. Frederick Chilton. He works at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.”

Dr. Lecter hums, tone somewhat displeased, “I have heard of him before. Have even had the misfortune of encountering him once, after I took over a few of his past cases. He can be rather cocky and egotistical, if given the chance. Why were you bothering with him?”

“He had some information I wanted about a former patient there. You’d know of him, since he was a case you took over. Abel Gideon ring a bell?”

“Ah yes, the man who proclaimed himself as the Ripper for a short time because of Dr. Chilton’s naïve influence and belief he had the Ripper in his midst. It is a pity what happened to Gideon because of it.”

Will huffs, “Pity doesn’t feel right for what happened. Being captured mid-transit, having your leg surgically removed without reason and being forced to eat it once the anesthesia wears off, only then to be brutally murdered slowly from heart failure after the Ripper finishes tearing you to pieces… Pity doesn’t work for that.” 

“And if pity isn’t apt, then what is?” Dr. Lecter asks as Will takes a sip of his wine.

Will swallows and lowers his glass, watching as he starts swirling the remaining drink within, “Retribution.”

“For whom?”

“The Ripper,” and Will takes another sip.

Dr. Lecter takes some of the meat he had gotten out of the fridge and begins to shape it, “Why do you think that?”

“Because, Gideon took claim of what wasn’t his. Of what he didn’t do. The Ripper was furious afterwards. For someone, especially like _Gideon,_ to take credit for his work?” Will laughs into another sip of wine.

“Credit for his work,” Dr. Lecter parrots, “That’s a specific choice of words.”

Will then realizes his slip up, and he’s practically knocked out of his trance, “Oh, I— I’m sorry, I didn’t realize… I wasn’t intending to speak in such a way.”

“But you did… Why?”

Will bites his bottom lip for a moment, thinking, “I guess it’s because I think so much of the Ripper I start to think _like_ him sometimes— unintentionally, of course.”

Dr. Lecter stops shaping the pork, “You think like him?”

“Well, in some way I do. I hope this doesn’t come across as weird to you, but. . . the Chesapeake Ripper has been something I’ve been following and working with for months now, ever since he started killing again at the beginning of the year. Apparently after spending so much time reading and taking in all this information, I’ve just started to see his views on things.”

“You’re empathizing… With the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Will drops his gaze down some, “It’s odd, I know.”

“No, it’s not.”

Dr. Lecter’s words make Will look back up again in surprise, “W-What do you mean?”

“I find it endearing. Your dedication,” Dr. Lecter adds, “You are simply highly focused on the Ripper. Of course this sort of bleed over will occur. Is this why you’ve been theorizing and writing your articles as you have?”

Will smiles gingerly, “Now that you put it like that, I suppose so.”

“You never did tell me of your theories… If they are as interesting as that take on the Ripper’s perspective, I’d love to hear them.”

“Well, um,” Will’s holds his glass nervously, “I guess I could tell you now, but my notes are in my bag.”

Dr. Lecter smiles, “Go fetch them, then.”

Will excuses himself and heads into the living room turned office, reaching his bag that still resides by his chair. He quickly opens it, pulling out the draft, but also a small white pill placed in a bag as well. He quickly opens it, popping it into his mouth and swallowing it dry. The bitter taste causes him to shiver slightly, but he powers through it, gathering the papers and taking a deep breath, centering himself before returning to the kitchen.

He has about a thirty to forty-something minute window, but going by the way Dr. Lecter’s pupils dilate as Will enters the kitchen, his draft in hand, he’ll surely get the result he was intending for.

“I’m not sure if you want to read it yourself, since you currently have your hands covered in raw pork,” Will says as he comes back over to the island, smiling, “so I was thinking I could just read some of the theories to you, if that’s alright.”

Dr. Lecter mirrors his expression, “That’s fine with me, Will.”

Will nods then, beginning to look in the papers, “The first one I have is about the Ripper’s opinion of the portrayal he has in media, be it newspapers, tabloids, or the news itself.”

“Go on,” Dr. Lecter prompts.

“Truthfully, the Ripper has a certain image he wants to uphold. He’s rather picky and thorough, and he’s not one for marginal errors. That’s why it’s taking so long to catch him, but it’s also why the media is so wrong about him as well.”

Dr. Lecter tilts his head as he places the first bit of pork into a pan, the meat sizzling against the heated metal, “What do you mean?”

“The Ripper is portrayed as a mad man who randomly kills periodically, that he selects his victims at random to suit his needs. But, after researching on the Ripper so long, I don’t think that’s the case. You see, the Ripper has a pattern. He kills in sets, and there’s always a motive that I found.”

“You believe he has a motive?”

“Yes, but the reason why he gains that motive always different. Think of Freddie Lounds for example. She wrote about him in a way that he didn’t like, which I guess I couldn’t blame him because her pieces were full of cheap theatrics and overall I thought they were tasteless— apologies for speaking an ill truth of the dead,” Dr. Lecter snorts, Will continues, “Then compare Freddie to Gideon. Can’t you see it? Their similarity?”

Dr. Lecter pauses for a moment, only then to furrow his brow in confusion, “I’m afraid I do not.”

“The Ripper targets people he thinks are being unfair in some way, or as we mentioned earlier, what he considers” Will’s eyes lock onto Dr. Lecter’s then, “rude.”

Dr. Lecter stops cooking then, his back straightening and his demeanor turning serious, “Rude…”

“Think of how he left them. His method of displaying the bodies. They’re like art pieces, Dr. Lecter, and an artist always has a message hidden within their most prized works,” Will goes to a specific page then, the photo of Freddie’s corpse blown up till it reached the margins, “You see this? Look at how he left her face. Cut in half in a direct reference to the Greek masks that represent the tragedy and comedy within theater. Her death was to be as dramatic as her writing and her disrespectful method of reporting. I already explained that Gideon was there for retribution for the Ripper, to gain back the credit to his name anonymously by removing Gideon’s altogether. Do you see it now, from those two alone?”

“Yes,” Dr. Lecter says somewhat tensely, the food now forgotten.

“But there’s also something else I’ve noticed.”

“And what is that?”

Will smiles, his heart beginning to thrum, “There’s been another pattern. Someone lurking in the shadows. All one area, all connected in various ways. You see, I’ve narrowed it down, Dr. Lecter. After such thorough investigation how could I _not_ possibly connect the dots,” Will takes a final sip of his wine, knowing that Dr. Lecter’s gaze is flittering through an array of emotions, “I’m not ignorant, Dr. Lecter. Quite the opposite actually. But neither was Mariam Lass when she got this close either, am I right?” Will notices Dr. Lecter grabbing his chef’s knife, “No there’s no need for that. I’m not like her. I’m just a journalist going after what he wants.”

Before Will can truly protest, however, there’s a knife at his throat, and Dr. Lecter is growling, his eyes flashing red.

Will coughs, but thankfully, there isn’t enough pressure from the blade to where he can’t breathe or talk— however, as he swallows, there is apparently enough to nick his skin, and he hisses softly, “Now why did you have to go and ruin the mood?”

“I’m not here to play games,” Dr. Lecter seethes throw his teeth, “What is it that you want? The truth, an autographed photo?”

“H-How absurd,” Will forces out with a toothy smile, “I simply want you.”

Dr. Lecter’s eyes grow harder, “Me?”

“Yes… There’s a reason I’ve been circling around you, Dr. Lecter. I knew for a long time, after Gideon’s death, that you were the Ripper,” the knife presses a little deeper, its cut deepening, “I know you hate that name. It’s another reason you offed Lounds apart from her poor journalism methods.”

“I would say that yours are not that far from hers.”

Will laughs, a short, strangled sound from the way Dr. Lecter is pressing against his throat, “Oh please. From all the praise you were giving me earlier? I know that you like my writing, Dr. Lecter,” Will begins to trail his fingers up Dr. Lecter’s arm, “You know I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty.”

Dr. Lecter only growls, but his gaze does start to wander over to where Will is playing with his rolled up cuff link.

“You think I also didn’t notice the newspaper in your office? That it was opened to my article specifically?” Will tests, “Or how you have been so eager to read what I wrote about you since I mentioned it?”

The knife begins to let up, albeit it is a fraction of relent.

“You are as much a fan of me as I am of you,” Will starts, and he moves his hand from the alpha’s cuff link to his face, his palm cupping Dr. Lecter’s face gently, making the man rumble softly, fighting himself over its placement, “I know how you think. I know how you operate. I know it’s you altogether. The Chesapeake Ripper. My mate.”

Dr. Lecter’s eyes widen, and it’s then that Will can see the faintest amount of vulnerability there, “M-Mate?”

Will hums the confirmation, his own expression warm, “Ever since I was young and under my father’s drunken care, I dreamt of an alpha who would know how to get rid of the worthless people in the world. The pigs, as you like to think of them,” Will grins and chuckles at the shock written all over Hannibal’s face as he gestures to the pan where the meat is now burnt, “but I think we both know that isn’t pork.”

Dr. Lecter’s gaze narrows, “Why shouldn’t I kill you and cook you up instead?”

“Because I have a _much_ better offer than that,” Will grins as he sees the alpha become genuinely more curious, “Right before I came back in the kitchen, I took a heat inducer, and if my calculations are correct, I have about ten more minutes of clear thinking before I’m just a slave to instinct, as they all like to say,” Dr. Lecter’s pupils dilate once more, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips, “I thought you’d like the prospect. Now, all I ask of you is that you remove the pan from the stove, in case you want a house fire caused by the remains of Brian Zeller.”

There’s a look of awe on Dr. Lecter’s face, “How did you—“

“It seems like you have a vendetta with reporters,” Will smirks, “but a fondness for a certain one.”

Dr. Lecter growls, his irises turning red once more.

“The meat, Dr. Lecter?”

“Call me Hannibal,” the alpha says gruffly, practically pushing the pan off the eye and nearly breaking the knob as he shuts it off.

“Huh, and to think I was about to moan about your status.”

Hannibal rumbles, his eyes now locked onto Will in a hungry way. The knife remains in his hands.

“Oh, you want a little game of cat and mouse?” Will smirks, “But I thought you didn’t want to play games.”

Hannibal lifts his lips in a false, silent snarl, and Will giggles.

“Okay, we’ll play, Hannibal.”

Will darts off then, and Hannibal growls as he takes after him. The omega tears through Hannibal’s office first, laughing and smiling like he was merely playing tag in the schoolyard instead. Hannibal nearly slides on the floor with his speed, snarling and correcting himself right as Will tries to turn.

The omega cries out in excitement as he feels his alpha tackle him down, making him land harshly on his back along the surface of the desk. The items covering it go everywhere— a small file organizer goes tumbling, papers scatter around the floor. Will breathes roughly with excitement, smiling as Hannibal growls and brings his knife towards the visible collar of Will’s shirt.

Will laughs again, “Do it.”

Without any further prompting, Hannibal uses his knife to cut the fabric, making Will moan softly as the alpha forcibly undresses him with the blade’s assistance.

“Here,” Will lifts up enough to shrug off his jacket, “Let me help you.”

Hannibal is obviously gone on his own instinct, his eyes fully red instead of their deep maroon, and it makes Will shiver in anticipation as he begins to feel his skin warm up in a familiar way.

“Not long now,” he whispers to Hannibal, and the alpha rumbles his approval.

They barely manage to get Will’s shoes off, but they do, leaving Will scantly covered in shreds of his former shirt, half-naked atop of Hannibal’s work desk. The alpha practically purrs at the sight, taking his knife and moving down to Will’s belt. The omega undoes the buckle, only then to have Hannibal rip through the cloth yet again, nicking Will’s leg in the process.

He moans softly, feeling Hannibal remove the remains of his ruined pants and then start on his boxers, which is a bit more of a delicate process with Will’s hardened cock stretching the thin fabric. But thankfully, Hannibal retains his fine coordination, and cuts the boxers away without any major damage to Will. There are, however, fine cuts and nicks along his hips, their fine stinging couples nicely with the burning of his oncoming heat.

“Hannibal,” Will whines, feeling his awareness begin to slip away, “Hannibal, it’s nearly time.”

Hannibal snarls, and he tosses the knife aside for a moment, it landing with a clatter right beside Will’s torso. 

With just as much impatience, Hannibal destroys his own clothing in the process of removing them, and it leaves Will’s mouth watering as he starts to feel slick seep out of himself.

“Inside me, _now,_ ” Will orders, and Hannibal wastes no time to comply.

Will groans as he feels the head of Hannibal’s cock press against him rim, his heat already making him loose enough for his alpha.

The rest turns mostly into a blur with only a few, scant moments of clarity. There is one moment when Will feels Hannibal’s hands forcing his own against the desk as he rams into him, there is another in which Will is keening with the knife at his throat as his alpha just _takes._

He doesn’t exactly become fully aware of himself and the world again until that next morning, when he wakes up in an unfamiliar set of sheets, an arm wrapped around his middle and a fresh mating mark scabbed over on his neck.

Hannibal is already awake, his gaze softer than the light dancing his fingertips do over Will’s abdomen.

“Hi,” Will says quietly, his volume lighter than the rays of the morning sun filtering in through the window.

“Good morning, dear William,” Hannibal purrs, “Did you sleep well?”

“Can’t remember much,” Will answers honestly, but he snuggles into Hannibal’s chest, a light purr building within his own, “that’s the downside to heats.”

Hannibal hums, and he moves his hand to Will’s back, “If it is any consolation, I cannot recall much either. Downside to a rut.”

Will smirks, “I put you in a rut?”

“You were rather convincing last night.”

The omega chuckles, “I’m glad I was.”

“You are peculiar,” Hannibal stares into Will’s eyes then, “I’m not quite sure how to gauge and fully respond to everything that’s happened.”

“Don’t worry,” Will smiles softly, grabbing ahold of Hannibal’s hand and cupping it, “Just give it time. I’m sure everything will come together eventually.”

“Are you certain?”

“Positive.”

Hannibal chuckles, “Alright… But no more surprises.”

And Will laughs.

**-xXx-**

“Positive…” Will swallows, looking at his second test, “A-Also positive.”

Hannibal looks pale from where he rests against the bathroom countertop, “We’re having a baby…”

Will looks over to his mate, brows furrowed, “Are— are you not happy about that?”

“I’m not regretful no, but I feel… I don’t know exactly how to put it.”

Will’s stomach churns much like it has for the past few mornings, “That doesn’t sound reassuring to me…”

“I wish I could offer something more solid and definitive, but—“ Hannibal stands then, “Will, this is not a life suitable for a child.”

“What are you talking about? We’ve been together for three months now Hannibal. I practically stay at your place, and I’ve been considering asking Jack to let me leave the paper. How is that not suitable?”

“Because I am a serial murderer, Will,” Hannibal growls, making Will shrink on himself a bit, “Even if I stop now that we know we are having a child, that does not completely rid us of a chance of my detainment. There is still a possibility someone else will figure me out. What would you do then, Will? Be it tomorrow, a few weeks down the road, some years? Are you ready to be a single parent? An omega whose alpha is locked away for life?”

“You make it sound as though I can’t take care of myself on my own.”

Hannibal sighs, and he leans down beside his mate, “The point is you should not have to know that we are mated— now that we are having a child. I do not want to be forced to abandon you like that.”

“Then if you’re so paranoid over getting caught, what do we do now?”

And with the most stricken expression Will has ever seen, Hannibal whispers, “I do not know.”

**-xXx-**

“We could go to Mexico,” is what Will says a few days later as Hannibal is cutting some vegetables for him to eat, “Change our names. Visit the sights. Maybe we can take some nice photos together at some of them, make some nice memories.”

“Going into hiding cannot be like a vacation, William,” Hannibal corrects him in a tone that makes Will begin to frown, “You cannot put yourself on the radar because you want to token gifts, or to take those idiotic pictures of one’s self in front of monuments.”

“I never meant it like that,” Will huffs angrily as he gets up from his seat, feeling like a belittled child while carrying one, “You know what— I’m not hungry anymore, and I think I’m going to head home.”

“Will, don’t—“

The vegetables went to waste.

**-xXx-**

Will refused to talk to Hannibal for a day or so, ignoring the man’s pleading calls and texts. Beverly saw that something was off and gave him kind words. Jack noticed but gave him distance.

No one asks what’s going on.

When Will heads home for the day, Hannibal is already waiting. He says nothing, but offers a fresh looking batch of vegetables and fruit to Will.

“What’s this shit?”

“Language,” Hannibal sighs, but goes on, “It’s for you, but also the baby. You need a certain diet to provide necessary nutrients and—“

“You are so obtuse,” Will seethes then, throwing his jacket onto the cough and getting into Hannibal’s face, “We are arguing right now about how in the world we’re going to make it on the off chance you’re figured out, and your number one concern is what I’m eating?”

Hannibal looks confused, “You and the baby are my first priority.”

“No we’re not! Not when you can’t take my ideas or even try and come up with your own! Hannibal, what are we supposed to do!? And don’t you dare say I have to eat first before anything is said, because I will throw that salad bar catastrophe away right in front of you, and send you and your blasted fucking Tupperware right back home!”

Hannibal presses his lips together tightly, but doesn’t argue back.

At the alpha’s lack of rebuttal, Will deflates, his shoulders slumping and his heart growing heavy, “Hannibal, how are we going to make this work, really? And I mean in more than just finding a way to ensure you’ll stay with me—“ Will drops a hand to his abdomen, “—with us…”

“Will?”

“Hannibal, I understand that circumstances are different for us. You, for all intents and purposes, are the Chesapeake Ripper,” Will doesn’t miss the way Hannibal scowls lightly at the name, “But at the same time, I can’t help but feeling we’re going about this all wrong— like you need to be doing more than just making me food and sneaking into my place before I get home from work.”

“Then what do you want me doing?”

“I want you to try and secure us the future you’re so worried about.”

Hannibal frowns, “There are not many options, Will… With you being such a known writer, and I having been quite publicized with psychiatry and other surgical occupations, it seems rather challenging to try and find a spot in the world that will not recognize us for what we really are.”

Will’s lips down turn as he comes forward. He closes in the distance between himself and Hannibal until he’s near enough.

He grabs ahold of the Tupperware bowl.

“You have till I finish this damn salad gone wrong.”

**-xXx-**

“Europe,” Will echoes, munching on a strawberry, “You want to go to Europe.”

“It seems like the most logical option. Farther away from the States than Mexico,” Will sends Hannibal a look that makes him drop that specific subject, “Nonetheless, I have some ideas what we can do. There’s a wider range of countries there. Of course, we’ll have to learn other languages or—“

“Whoa whoa whoa, slow down there,” Will stands, making a bit of a face as his stomach grumbles from the odd mixture of produce, “Don’t you think that’s a bit much when we don’t even have a location in mind?”

“It seems rational enough to consider the possibility,” Hannibal defends.

Will shakes his head, “Just— don’t worry about that right now. Get a place in mind, something more specific than just ‘Europe.’ Also, you better make sure there’s a good hospital in the area, because I’m not taking any chances with our child.”

“I’m not either.”

“Good,” Will then sits down again, breathing in deeply, “because you would’ve found out what it’s like to get murdered yourself for a change.”

Oddly enough, it makes Hannibal chuckle.

**-xXx-**

“You’re quitting?” Jack asks with disbelief.

“Yes, I am,” Will sits across from Jack, the start of his baby bump hidden perfectly under his dress shirt, “I think it’s time I did something different with my life… Went somewhere new… Met someone finally.”

“Well, I have to say, this is quite the surprise,” Jack exhales, running a hand over his face, “I never took you to be one that wanted the white picket fence life.”

“I guess it happens to all of us at some point, but I’ve reached the end here, Jack. I need a new beginning. A fresh start.”

Jack sighs, “I’m going to tell you now, the paper is going to be lacking without you.”

Will laughs lightly at that, “It’s a paper, Jack. It’ll do just fine without me, especially with Beverly taking over my old spot.”

“I know, I know… It’s just hard to believe you’re walking away after all that you’ve done while you’ve been here.”

“I have something new to look forward to,” Will smiles, knowing that tomorrow, he’s going to board a plane and begin his new life with Hannibal and their child, “Not gonna say that I won’t miss writing or working here, because I probably will, but sometimes in your life, things just have to change for the better.”

“Amen to that,” Jack leans back in his chair, “Alright. You’re free to go, Will. Just— send me a postcard or something from wherever you go, so I know you’re alive and out there?”

And Will smiles knowingly, “You and everyone else.”

Jack snorts and dismisses him, “Good luck with whatever you end up doing, Will.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got an inkling that things will work out in the end,” and with a laugh, Will begins to walk out the door, his arm that holds his jacket covering up the way his hand spreads across his small bump, “They always do.”

**Author's Note:**

> ##### Prompt me here at:
> 
> ##### This was written to:
> 
> 1\. Tear in my Heart - twenty one pilots (TOPxMM Remastered Version)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T1I5TsyDVUE


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